


Kiss My Homeland Goodbye

by Her_Madjesty



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Peaches - Freeform, Public Blow Jobs, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 19:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14292042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: “What are you doing here, Anya?” she thinks he asks, but he’s hard to hear over the pounding of her heart.Anya finishes chewing and forces herself to meet the deputy commissioner's gaze. “Do you want me to apologize?”





	Kiss My Homeland Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vampyrekat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampyrekat/gifts).



> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The train out of Leningrad is lousy with whispers. Anya lets Vlad hustle her ahead of Dmitry as they tuck into their designated compartment, all of them eager to avoid any sidelong glances from the Bolshevik's other undesirables. Her two companions are unusually somber as they gather their meager things together and shove them onto the overhead shelves. She watches them, then moves to make room for Dmitry on the wooden bench that is her seat. He tries to smile at her, but his mouth falters before he can manage.

Anya glances over to Vlad. He only shrugs

Together, they sit, eying the dark train station and holding their breaths.

It feels like they sit in the station for years. The first jolt of motion sends Anya sprawling forward; she avoids smashing her teeth on the hard floor only when Dmitry’s hand catches on the back of her coat. Vlad leans forward and braces her elbows, humming sympathetically as she straightens back up.

There’s a “thank you” on the tip of her tongue, but Anya swallows it down. Instead, she lets her fingers brush over Vlad’s knuckles and focuses her gaze on her feet. Dmitry’s hand is quick to leave her back, but the warmth lingers.

Outside the window, the train station fades. It gives way to the brick shadows of Leningrad, then to the barren fields beyond it, and then to hills, trees, and a continuous fall of snow.

Only when the last of the city has disappeared from sight does Dmitry relax. Anya glances away from her shoes as he stretches on their shared bench and marvels at the way his mouth curves into its familiar cocky smile.

Her eyes follow him as he rises. Vlad kicks him in the shin as he forces open the rectangle of a window, but Anya sees him hide a smile as Dmitry blows a kiss into the air.

“Goodbye, Mother Petersburg!” he calls into the night.

Vlad huffs a laugh. “Goodbye, Father Winter.”

Dmitry glances back, his grin growing wider. “Goodbye to rationing!”

“To begging!” Vlad agrees.

“To the Bolshevik regime!” Dmitry slams the window against its sill for good measure, his face flushed with happiness. Anya watches him, irritation tempering her amusement, as he turns back to the compartment properly. His gaze falls on a chuckling Vlad before touching on her; when it does, his expression – changes. Anya holds his stare and wonders if he can still feel the press of the diamond that bought their freedom against the palm of his hand.

“Nothing to add, your highness?” Dmitry asks as he sits.

Anya looks past him, out to the Russian wilderness that stretches on and on for miles. She stays quiet for long enough that she sees Dmitry’s cheerful expression start to falter.

“Goodbye to home,” she says, at last. She tries to offer her companions a smile, but the expression feels false. Vlad reaches across the compartment and pats her knee with kindness written into his wrinkles. Dmitry frowns. “The world is bigger than St. Petersburg, Anya,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I love it, too – you know I do. But we’ll be safer now that we’re out.”

“I know,” Anya says with a huff. She burrows into the folds of her coat. “That doesn’t mean I won’t miss it, though.”

She thinks of Yusupov Palace, sitting alone and empty in the night. A shiver runs down her spine, like a shock of cold water in the midst of a bath, like hard cots in the early morning, though she can’t pinpoint the reason why.

Dmitry glances at Vlad, then makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Just wait until we get to Paris,” he says, nudging Vlad’s calf with his foot. “We’ll forget all about this place, I bet you.”

Vlad laughs and replies – something witty, Anya’s sure – but she tunes them out, focusing instead on the steady fall of snow just beyond the train’s window and the melancholy eating away at the cockles of her heart.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before she stands and stretches. “I’m going to take a walk,” she says, interrupting some argument of her companions’.

Vlad rises with her, tsking as he does. “A young lady should not go without an escort,” he says.

Anya levels him with a look as he rifles through his voluminous pockets. “Not even the Grand Duchess Anastasia?”

“Especially not the Grand Duchess Anastasia,” Dmitry huffs.

“However,” Vlad pauses and lets out a satisfied noise as, at last, he pulls a set of papers from his pockets, “Professor Elizaveta Ivanov may go wherever she likes.” He presses the false documents into Anya’s waiting hands; their ink is a fresh, deep blue.

“An excellent forgery, if I do say so myself,” Vlad says with a wink. He pats Anya on the back. “Now, go; stretch your royal legs. We shall be here whenever you deign to return.”

Anya raises an eyebrow at the false loftiness of his voice, but she rises onto her toes and kisses his cheek, anyway. “Stay out of trouble, won’t you?” she asks, stepping out of the compartment.

“Only if you do, my dear,” Vlad replies.

The door to their nest clicks shut behind her as Anya turns her back. She rolls her neck and relishes its popping before taking a few steps into the hall of their train car.

An older man, clutching several books to his chest, nods to her as she passes. A pair of women peek out at her from the windows of their own compartment, their bodies pressed closed together to better shelter them from the cold. Anya does her best not to peek as she moves out of the car, bracing herself against the wind as she moves towards the scent of food.

The dining car is two cars away from her own, but the walk is hardly trying. It’s the rush when she steps inside that sends her reeling. Anya tastes iron, biting the inside of her cheek, as the warmth of the car envelopes her; the air smells of sausage, broth, cabbage, and tea. She loses her balance for a moment, then forces herself upright and towards an empty table close to the far end of the car.

Anya sits and crosses her ankles, Dmitry’s nagging in her ears, before a man in white and black comes to stand at her side. He offers her a glass of water, which she takes, and promises to bring a basket of cheap bread, should she so desire.

Anya hesitates, then turns him down. The man shrugs before attending to the car’s other patrons. It is a courtesy that is – unfamiliar. Anya doesn’t question it.

She has nearly emptied her glass by the time someone slips into the seat across from her. Anya, too engrossed with the changing landscape outside the window, doesn’t notice – not until the stranger clears his throat.

“Enjoying the view?”

“The last time I saw this much of Russia, I was walking,” Anya admits. She forces her gaze away from the forest of birch trees, only to go still at the sight across from her.

Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov is not a man capable of casual appearances. He slouches, now, out of uniform, but Anya stills feels some feral instinct grow tense at the sight of the fire burning in his eyes. She watches him, wary, as he waves to the man in white and black. He takes the bowl of peach slices the man offers with a nod, then returns his attention to her.

Anya narrows her eyes, but does not look away. “One of yours, then?”

Vaganov doesn’t smirk, only shrugs. The contradiction he paints makes Anya want to laugh, but the sound sticks in her throat. She watches him take a bite of his peaches, the juice dripping over his chapped lips.

On a whim, Anya takes her own fork – set in a napkin at her side – and reaches out. She spears a peach slice before Gleb can say a word, slips it into her mouth, and bites down.

Gleb raises an eyebrow. Anya pays him no mind, too distracted by the flavor assaulting her mouth, though she does not miss the way his ears start to redden.

“What are you doing here, Anya?” she thinks he asks, but he’s hard to hear over the pounding of her heart.

Anya finishes chewing and forces herself not to look longingly at the remaining peaches in the Bolshevik’s bowl. “Do you want me to apologize?”

If possible, Gleb’s eyebrow climbs higher. He leans back in his seat and folds his hands together on the table. “I want you to come home,” he says. “I have men running the length of this train as we speak, looking for your two con men. I will call them off – but only if you return to Leningrad with me. And,” he pauses, “if you leave Anastasia behind.”

Anya blinks.

Gleb waits, fingers tapping against the table between them. “You wouldn’t – there’s no trial waiting for you, you know,” he says, rushing as though to reassure her. “You just – have to denounce the Romanov name. Stop pretending to be someone you’re not. It’s simple, Anya, really.”

“Is it?” Anya replies, quiet.

Gleb studies her face and seems to settle on something he sees there. He runs a hand through his neatly-kept hair, after a moment, and sighs. “Perhaps not,” he says. “I know, though, that this will be as easy as you choose to make it.”

Anya can’t explain the warring emotions inside of her – amusement, sadness, longing. She watches the way Gleb’s face changes in the rapid-fire moonlight – one moment bright, the next in shadow.

Her heart is racing. She is not afraid.

“Will you walk with me?” she asks, rising from her seat. Gleb is on his feet in a moment, but when she does not flee, he stutters, then pushes in her chair behind her. Anya bites back a smile and waits for him to answer.

“...yes?”

It takes a concentrated effort for her not to laugh. Anya starts forward and keeps her pace slow. Gleb follows as she leaves the dining car behind and moves them towards the train’s engine.

They are quiet, even as they brace themselves against intermediate bursts of cold. Anya settles, finally, some several cars up the train and presses her fingers against the glass of one of the windows.

“I don’t want to leave, you know,” she says, turning to look back at Gleb. “Petersburg – Leningrad is the only place that really feels like home to me. Do you know how that feels?”

Gleb looks back at her. His throat, Anya sees, turns red the longer he stares; when she tries to meet his eye, he looks away.

Warmth burns, deep in her belly.

“In a way,” he replies.

Anya takes a step forward. “I don’t enjoy feeling homesick,” she admits. “Especially for a place I barely know.”

She’s crowding into his space, now, but Gleb has yet to move to push her away. Out of uniform, he is both less and more; authority has been hammered into his spine, Anya suspects, but he is – breathless.

Eager.

Guilty.

She looks up at him through her lashes and – tentatively – places a hand against his chest. The fractured moonlight glints off of the gun he’s hidden at his waist.

She doesn’t know what it is that prompts her to go up on her toes, doesn’t quite realize she’s done it until her lips are a breath away from Gleb’s. Still, the deputy commissioner does not stop her.

“Will you kiss me, Gleb?” _So I can kiss my homeland goodbye?_

Anya feels Gleb’s hands settle on her waist, sees his eyes flutter shut as he leans forward. It’s a chaste kiss – or, rather, his is; his lips are trembling as they brush against hers.

“I don’t –” he stutters, pulling away, though his hands bunch up the fabric of her dress. “Anya, this isn’t –”

Anya hushes him and kisses him again.

Her tongue brushes against his lower lip, and she feels the tension in his shoulders melt. He wants this, whether or not he admits it to himself, and low, deep in some strange part of her, she wants it, too.

She backs him against the nearest compartment and relishes the way he moans when the wood hits his spine. The sound settles against her tongue as she begins to play with the straps of his suspenders, brushing them to the side so she can rake her hands across his shoulders, down his back. Gleb pulls back, gasping for breath, only for Anya to bury her mouth in his neck; when she bites, he hisses but does not push her away.

“What are you –?” he tries, as Anya kisses her way down his chest. “What – what?”

“You ask too many questions,” Anya huffs, nimble fingers undoing the button of his pants. Above her, Gleb struggles to do something with his hands, but Anya feels them brush against the crown of her head.

When she tugs his pants down, his gun falls with them. She doesn’t acknowledge the sound of it hitting the floor, and neither does he. Instead, Anya looks up at Gleb from her knees and reaches out, stroking his cock and relishing the way he shudders.

Gleb opens his mouth, as though he wants to speak, but Anya – knows men. She brushes her thumb over the head of his cock, and even through his thin, cotton underwear, the friction is enough to make him shudder.

“Has it been long?” she asks, leaning forward to kiss the dampening fabric.

Gleb lets out a choked moan in response.

Despite everything – his position, his threats – his knees are going weak, and Anya grins as she pulls his underwear down to his calves. It’s fast, perhaps too fast, but he is hard and red and already slick with want of her.

Anya moves one hand to the base of his cock and the other beneath the wave of her skirts. Gleb must see her do it, because he rasps out, “I could –”

Anya takes him in her mouth, and his words are lost. She lavishes his head alone, tasting the bitter salt of his pre-cum before popping off with a hum. “No,” she says, looking up at him again. His head is pressed back against the compartment’s outer paneling; his pupils, even in the moonlight, are blown out, beautiful and black. “Not yet.”

She returns her mouth to him, then, hollowing out her cheeks and humming as he twitches. One of his hands curls into a fist and slams against the compartment wall; the other, gently, tangles itself in her hair. He doesn’t buck into her mouth until she prompts him to, and even then, it’s as though he fears to move.

The hand Anya keeps for herself plays with her clit through her own layers of clothes. It’s not enough, but the warmth of want already burning inside of her, partnered with the taste of the deputy commissioner in her mouth, is its own sort of satisfying.

She pumps Gleb’s cock with one hand and focuses her tongue on his head, licking the thick vein on the underside until he’s squirming. A sharp tug of her hair pulls her off of him; Anya rocks back on her heels, indignant, until he hauls her up against him. His chest is heaving for want of breath, and his eyes –

Anya has seen a number of men and women alike; had to, while she was traveling. Few of them have looked so beautiful when wrecked.

Gleb’s hands drops from her arms at once; his own arm comes to hold her around the waist, while the other moves to – with a near hesitation – press against her right breast.

“Minx,” he growls, before molding his mouth to hers.

Anya groans and returns one of her hands to the base of his cock. The other, smelling of her want, guides his so that he can touch her as she likes, flicking her nipple to hardness and rolling it between his fingers, even through her shirt. Her mewl echoes through the train car, but there is no one present to hear them.

Contented that she will not pull away, the arm around her waist drops, and Gleb moves under her skirts, pulling her own undergarments away from her. Anya grinds against the hardness of his cock, moves in time with each of her strokes, and relishes the way his breaths grow shallow.

“Careful, Anya,” he murmurs against her mouth. “It has been – too long.”

Anya doesn’t bother to swallow her laugh, this time; instead, she brushes against him again, then takes her hand from its place guiding his and instead pulls her skirts up high. Gleb pulls off of her breast and comes to grip her ass. There is a question in his eyes, but Anya is quick to answer it with a kiss.

They turn. Gleb presses her back against the wood paneling of the compartment wall, and Anya wraps her legs around his waist.

“Are you trying to make me fly?” she gasps into his mouth, though the words turn to a groan as he settles himself at her entrance.

“Only to make you feel good,” he replies. Anya flexes her thighs, and then he is in her, pressed tight as though he never wants to be parted from her again. The noise he makes rattles her to her core.

She keeps her arms around his neck as he adjusts to the feeling, knows that she can take the girth of him, if only after a moment. His breath comes hot against her breasts, even through the layers of fabric.

“Gleb,” she grits out, rocking her hips forward. “ _Move_.”

The deputy commissioner does as he’s told. The feel of him, pressing against her, pressing into her – Anya closes her eyes and rests her head against the wall behind her. She takes one hand off of his neck and presses against her clit, her skirts rucking up around her thighs as Gleb tries, again and again, to bury himself in her completely. She gasps, loud, as he kisses her neck and as his teeth graze the tender skin covering her jugular.

Anya feels the whole of body alight with sensitivity; every movement, from the train, from Gleb, becomes a rush. She tightens the grip of her legs around his waist and feels her thoughts fall away, leaving nothing except the rush of his breath in her ear and pleasure, building and building and building and -

“Come on, Anya,” Gleb murmurs, his voice ragged and full of longing. “Come to me.”

Anya breaks. The train, the wood pressing into her back, Dmitry, Vlad, St. Peterburg – it all disappears in a haze of white, leaving nothing except her hips pressing, over and over, into Gleb’s as she cums. Gleb grunts into her neck, and she feels him spilling into her. His seed drips down her thighs as he twitches inside of her, his hands still strong in keeping her aloft.

He pulls out of her before helping her to the ground, and slumps himself down onto the well-worn carpet. Anya follows, straddling his knees as she tries to catch her breath.

Gleb doesn’t open his eyes as she presses a kiss to the corner of the mouth. Instead, he smiles – a self-deprecating thing. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Anya hums. She glances through the train car, careful not to move too quickly. “Perhaps not,” she says, keeping her voice light. “But do you regret it?”

She doesn’t give him the chance to answer.

Through the post-coital haze, she manages to grab his gun from his belt, and – in the moment he manages to open his eyes – slams the butt of it against his temple. Gleb’s look of shock is lost as he slips unconscious, the whole of his body falling limp.

Anya consider him for a second, maybe less, and swallows the guilt rising up in her stomach.

She pulls herself together and tucks him back into his pants before slipping the gun in the pocket of her coat. Gleb has already begun to stir by the time she slips from the train car; it is all the courtesy, she knows, that she is able to give him. She passes through the dining car, unkempt and flushed, and ignores the knowing look from the man who served her. She does not run, even as her heart rabbits against her ribcage, as though she’s running from a wolf.

Vlad looks up at her when she enters their compartment; Dmitry does not.

“We need to go,” Anya says, tossing the gun into Dmitry’s lap. He startles, his disinterested mask falling away. “The Bolsheviks know we’re here.”

“Of course they do,” Dmitry mutters, coming to his feet. “Because none of this can be easy.”

Vlad lingers as Dmitry rushes to gather their things, looking Anya over with care. As they rush from the compartment, he claps his hand on her shoulder, guiding her ahead of him even as he leans to whisper in her ear.

“Whatever you’ve done,” he says, “we are here to help you. If one of them – if you find you’re in trouble –”

“We’re all in trouble, Vlad,” Anya doesn’t quite snap, but it’s a near thing. Ahead of her, Dmitry skips out of the train car and into the cold, looking for some means of escape. Behind them all, Anya hears strangers shouting.

Before she steps out, she brushes a hand against Vlad’s own. “It’ll be alright,” she tells him, repeating the words in her own head. “Now: let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Don't have unprotected sex.


End file.
